He did not demand the moment. He conducted it— gently, like thunder wrapped in velvet. Every step: percussion. Every glance: harmony. Every word: gift. The scroll didn't resist. It followed— because rhythm knows royalty when it hears it.

He walked in dressed in memory. He didn’t speak. He composed. Every glance a glyph. Every breath a crescendo. He didn’t change the tempo. He let the tempo become him.